Parents' reflections

Location: Armond Army Camp

Far from the grandeur of the court, the southeastern borders of the Empire stood as a stark contrast—a landscape marked by jagged cliffs and the scorched remains of recent battles. The Armond army, though victorious, bore the scars of their trials, their camp bustling with the disciplined urgency of seasoned soldiers.

In the center of the camp, Garrick, the towering grizzly half-beastman, adjusted the new insignia on his uniform. Beside him, Claude, the fox-eared recruit turned officer, leaned casually against a stack of crates, his sharp eyes scanning the bustling camp.

"Promotions," Garrick rumbled, his voice a mix of pride and bemusement. "Who'd have thought we'd earn these stripes so soon?"

Claude smirked, his tail flicking lazily. "Maybe the Armond Pass had something to do with it. Saving the Empire from disaster tends to make an impression."

Garrick chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "True enough. But credit where it's due—we weren't alone out there."

The two shared a glance, their thoughts inevitably drifting to Micheal. Though the young recruit hadn't fought on the front lines, his inventions had made an unexpected impact. The man-bras and joint protectors he had tirelessly worked on had performed beyond expectations, providing crucial support to soldiers during the heat of battle.

"Speaking of Micheal," Claude said, his tone shifting to one of concern, "have you heard what's become of him?"

Garrick's expression darkened. "Drifter mentioned he's back at the Shelb estate. Sick, overworked, and blaming himself for everything that happened. Sounds like the kid's carrying more weight than he should."

Claude's ears flattened slightly, his usual nonchalance giving way to worry. "He's just a new recruit. No one expected him to carry the battle on his shoulders. Hell, those inventions of his saved lives. That's more than enough."

Garrick nodded, his massive hand resting on Claude's shoulder. "You're right. The boy's got heart, even if he doesn't see it. We owe it to him to remind him of that. He exceeded expectations, even if he doesn't think so."

Claude managed a small smile, his tail flicking upward. "Next time we see him, we'll make sure he knows it."

The two officers stood in companionable silence, the weight of their shared experiences forging a bond stronger than words. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the camp in shades of gold and crimson, the Armond army prepared for the next chapter of their journey, their resolve as unyielding as the cliffs they defended.

Location: Shelb Estate

The workshop hidden deep within the Shelb estate hummed with quiet anticipation. Barnaby stood beside a workbench laden with gleaming prototypes, his expression calm but with a telltale glint of mischief in his eyes. Arthur, on the other hand, barely contained his excitement, his restless energy radiating as he shifted from foot to foot.

Micheal entered, his steps slow and uneven, his left leg encased in a heavy cast and his right arm secured in a sling. His platinum blonde hair was tied back, and his expression carried a mix of curiosity and weariness. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of recovery and reflection, and he was eager for a diversion.

"What's this?" Micheal asked, raising an eyebrow at the neatly arranged tools and devices on the table.

Arthur grinned broadly. "Oh, just a little something to brighten your day, my lord. Behold, the prototypes you designed! Reimagined and perfected!"

Barnaby cleared his throat, shooting Arthur a subtle warning glance. "Master Micheal, these are merely advancements on the designs you first introduced. Nothing more than minor improvements."

Micheal stepped closer, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. "You're being unusually vague. What are you two hiding?"

Arthur's grin faltered. "Hiding? Us? Never!" He gestured dramatically at the prototypes. "These are your brilliant inventions! Man-bras! Joint protectors! You know, the ones that, uh, saved lives during the Red Sky and Red Fog incident."

Micheal froze mid-step. "Wait… saved lives? During the battlefield? Why am I only hearing about this now?"

Barnaby adjusted his cuffs, his composed demeanor unshaken. "Indeed, Master Micheal. Your designs were instrumental in aiding the soldiers at Armond Pass. Sir Drifter himself vouched for their effectiveness."

Micheal's gaze darted between them. "And yet, you conveniently forgot to mention this until now. Why?"

Arthur laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, you see, Drifter... uh... suggested we adopt a more, you know, professional term for the products. Aura Fixers. Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?"

Micheal blinked, stunned. "Aura Fixers? Who approved that name? These were my inventions, my designs—and Micheal's Fixes? That nickname came from the guys in the Rowdy Barracks, not me!"

Barnaby sighed, stepping in smoothly. "A valid point, Master Micheal. Regardless, Drifter felt that a unified and formal term would better suit their deployment—wherever they may be needed. 'Aura Fixers' was chosen as the official designation. It was... a strategic decision."

Micheal's expression darkened. "So, not only did you rebrand something connected to me, but you're still hiding something, aren't you?"

Arthur waved his hands in a placating gesture. "Hiding? Us? Never! It's just... you know... we're trying to make sure these prototypes are perfect before anything happens. Sensitive timing and all that."

Barnaby adjusted his cuffs, his composed demeanor returning. "Indeed. Master Micheal, your designs have been impactful already. Their ingenuity has saved lives—though I assure you, we've kept things under control. You'll hear all about it at the right moment."

Micheal let out a long sigh, his frustration giving way to reluctant pride. "So, you're saying my designs saved lives. Knowing they were crucial during the battle at Armond Pass and protected so many… that's something I'm truly grateful for."

Barnaby nodded. "Precisely. Your ingenuity has made a tangible impact, Master Micheal. Soldiers owe their survival to your inventions."

Despite himself, Micheal couldn't suppress a small smile. "Fine. Aura Fixers, man-bras, whatever you want to call them."

Arthur clapped him on the back with exaggerated enthusiasm. "See? He's proud of us. Crisis averted!"

Barnaby's lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile. "Indeed. Though I would suggest we tread carefully with future rebranding decisions."

Before Micheal could reply, the door swung open, and Duchess Eleanor von Shelb swept into the room. Draped in a flowing gown of soft emerald and ivory, her presence was as commanding as it was elegant. Her sharp hazel eyes scanned the room before settling on her son.

"Micheal, darling," she began, her tone deceptively sweet, "it's time we prepared you to face the Emperor. This confrontation will define your standing—not just as a noble or the son of the House Shelb, but most importantly, as Raphael's son-in-law. I won't have you stumbling over your words."

Micheal groaned inwardly. "Mother, I'm not sure preparation can help me there. Besides, isn't your expertise more in tea etiquette than imperial confrontations? I'm fairly certain the Emperor has bigger problems than how I hold my cup."

The Duchess ignored his protests and took a seat, her poise impeccable. "Nonsense! Let me tell you a few things about the Emperor that might… soften your view of him."

Micheal blinked, suddenly wary. "Mother, what are you…"

"Did you know," Eleanor began, her voice lilting with amusement, "that Raphael once tied ribbons on the palace dogs as a prank? He was scolded for hours when the hounds ran through a diplomatic meeting."

Arthur burst into laughter. "The Emperor? Pranking diplomats with ribbons? That's gold!"

Micheal stared in stunned disbelief. "Mother, that's the Emperor. I can't un-hear this!"

Eleanor waved a dismissive hand. "Knowing your opponent is half the battle, Micheal. He may sit atop the Empire now, but as a boy, he was often caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens. And as a teenager, he challenged a visiting prince to a tree-climbing competition. He fell and broke his wrist… but still won!"

Arthur clutched his sides, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "This is my favorite lesson ever."

Barnaby's lips twitched in amusement. "Quite relatable, I must admit."

Eleanor's tone grew softer, though her eyes retained their sparkle. "And as a young adult, Raphael once insisted on out-dancing every noble at a winter ball just to prove a point. By the end, half the court was nursing sore feet."

Micheal buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled. "Why are you telling me this? The Emperor is the supreme ruler of the Empire! This is unbearable."

Eleanor's smile softened, and a knowing glint entered her gaze. "Because, my dear, I want you to see him as a man, not an infallible deity. He's faced his own embarrassments, just like anyone else. If you understand this, you'll be less afraid when you stand before him."

Micheal's ears reddened, his discomfort growing. He knew from his dream repository of novels that his mother had once harbored a crush on Raphael. The thought made this conversation all the more awkward.

Arthur leaned toward Barnaby, whispering loudly enough for all to hear. "Honestly, if the Emperor ever heard these stories, I bet he'd glare daggers at us."

Barnaby, ever composed, allowed a faint smile. "Indeed. Educational and entertaining."

Micheal groaned again, but a reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. As much as he hated to admit it, his mother's insights might prove invaluable. He just wished they didn't come with such mortifying anecdotes.

Location: Imperial Palace

The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the floor as Magda took another careful step. Her crimson eyes were fixed on the path ahead, sweat beading her brow as Stella guided her gently, her supportive hand never leaving Magda's elbow. Nearby, a royal doctor observed silently, his clipboard in hand, his expression both professional and approving. Each step was deliberate, an act of willpower as Magda practiced walking again under the careful supervision of her caretakers.

Seated by the window, Raphael watched with an intensity that bordered on reverence. The sunlight filtering through the room illuminated the weariness etched on his face, but his gaze remained steady on Magda. She was making progress—fragile, halting progress—and that alone filled him with a quiet hope.

His thoughts, however, refused to stay anchored in the present. The letter from Duchess Eleanor had arrived earlier that day, carrying news that Micheal von Shelb was coming to the capital to meet Magda. The words had weighed heavily on him, stirring a maelstrom of emotions he had not yet sorted.

A flicker of memory surfaced: the battle reports from Armond Camp. His aide's voice had trembled as he recounted Micheal's state after the battle. "Your Majesty," the aide had said, "the young Lord von Shelb was near-mad, calling for her… shouting Her Highness' name like a man possessed. He wouldn't stop until he collapsed."

Raphael's jaw tightened as he recalled the description. For all his flaws, Micheal had shown a reckless courage and an unyielding desperation that few would have expected from him. The pampered noble son had shattered the image of indifference that had so often surrounded him. Raphael remembered his agent from the Shelb estate informing him that Micheal had started his man-bra business as a challenge to his father, an attempt to sway the Duke into supporting or at least remaining neutral toward Magda. When his father refused, Micheal had chosen defiance, channeling his energy into a cause that would ultimately save lives on the battlefield.

"For a man who's been called useless all his life," Raphael murmured to himself, "he didn't hesitate to stand against death for her."

Magda stumbled slightly, pulling him from his thoughts. Raphael stood immediately, his imposing figure a stark contrast to the quiet tenderness in his voice. "You're doing well, my little dove. Steady now."

Magda's crimson eyes flicked toward him, and she offered a small, determined smile before focusing back on her task. Stella murmured words of encouragement, her tone as gentle as her touch.

Raphael returned to his seat, his mind unwillingly drifting back to Micheal. He thought of the reports—of the joint protectors and the enhanced armor that Micheal had designed. Tools that had saved countless lives during the Red Sky and Red Fog incident. He thought of the young man's frantic search for Magda after the battle, his refusal to rest until he had exhausted every ounce of his strength.

With a deep sigh, Raphael leaned back in his chair. The decision had already formed in his mind, though he hated the vulnerability it required.

"He will see her," Raphael murmured, his voice low but resolute. "But the choice will still be hers."

As Magda's determined steps filled the room with the faint sound of progress, Raphael allowed himself a rare moment of optimism. For better or worse, Micheal would soon stand before Magda again, and Raphael would allow the future to unfold as it would.